


In the Silence of the Night

by tachikoma_rancher



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Confessions, Gen, Guilt, Past Character Death, Pregnancy, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tachikoma_rancher/pseuds/tachikoma_rancher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of the Archdemon, Alistair has taken his place as King of Ferelden -- Queen Anora by his side.  Pregnant with their heir, she awakens one night -- and in her restlessness begins confessing her secrets to her sleeping King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Silence of the Night

Anora woke well before dawn, in the witching-hours where the whole world seems to hold its breath.

Sprawled out beside her, careless in sleep as he could not afford to be in waking, was her royal husband, Alistair – now Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, last of the line of Calenhad.

_'Not_ last _,'_ she amended, as she felt the child inside her kick; its motion her reason for waking.

None-too-gracefully, she rose – seeking the chamberpot as she did, now, with increasing frequency.

' _The way this little barbarian dances on my bladder, I fear it shall take after its father._ '

A wry grin crossed her face at this thought and, after she had seen to her needs, Anora headed carefully, silently back to the bed.

Rather than lay herself down, however, she sat – perched on the edge of the bed – and turned to regard her sleeping husband.

_'How_ like _Cailan he looks; especially in sleep,'_ she thought.

And, in truth, while he shared many of his dead half-brother's strong features, the differences – especially in personality – made the two as unique as steel and gold.

For so long, Alistair had been an 'inconvenience' – an unwanted by-blow of the King's that had no place, it seemed.

Shunted from the Chantry, to the Templars, to the Grey Wardens; no wonder he had grown up bitter, cynical – all-too-ready to defend himself, or expose others, with his sharp tongue.

But there was brightness in him, too. And warmth. The same that Cailan had shared with everyone – in equal measure – was Alistair's, as well; though hidden by walls that took time and trust to breach.

Yet, Anora was not her father's daughter for nothing. She knew the tactics of a steady, continued assault. And though it had taken more than an upward gaze from her beseeching, blue eyes – which had won her Cailan's heart – she did eventually manage to breach the fortress of Alistair's heart, and gain his trust.

And, from there, his love.

Thankfully, once won, these prizes were well-secured. Alistair, like Cailan, was as unshakable in his loyalty as a mabari; though the former gave his more sparingly.

Of course, once he trusted her, it became all-too-clear just _how_ relieved Alistair was to have her – as Queen – by his side.

_'He never_ truly _wanted this throne – and I cannot fault him for it,'_ she thought, as she watched her king in, what was for him, a rare moment of relaxation.

Awake, he was the ruler of all Ferelden and, though he had gotten better over time, there were still days where he looked _too_ awkward, _too_ stiff – like a child in a grown man's clothes; acting the part while _desperately_ hoping not to be discovered.

Thank the Maker he did not fear weakness – or the _appearance_ of it, as Cailan had. At least, in regard to her aid.

Under Cailan's rule, she had done just as much as she did now – but it was never publicly acknowledged. Rumored, yes. But never _confirmed_.

That slight distinction helped salve some part of Cailan's ego, she supposed. And while it rankled, oh-so-slightly, she never complained...though she could have.

Perhaps she did it because she loved her husband. Perhaps she did it to feel useful.

_Perhaps_ she did it to keep herself busy – to drown out the whispers and stifle her own thoughts. All reminding her, year-after-year, that she remained barren.

Anora looked down at her swollen belly with a soft, bitter laugh. She'd always accepted the blame; _assumed_ there was something wrong with her. That _she_ , through her possession of Cailan, might kill the Theirin line.

' _Because we never had problems_ there _, did we? Cailan was so bold, brash, open – he made no secret of what he wanted._ '

_'Ah...but that's what got him killed, isn't it?'_

This sudden thought sprang into her mind like an unwanted guest, its timbre sweet and poisonous – a mocking reflection of her own voice.

Before she knew it, Anora was crying – hot, silent tears slipping down her face. The babe was part of it, she knew, its growing presence playing havoc with her emotions – giving the daughter of Loghain mac Tir far less control than usual.

Add to that the thought of Cailan – who she had grown up with, and _did_ truly love, in her way.

And she could _not_ stop weeping.

It was as though her iron-laced control began to buckle – the thoughts and emotions held so tight within threatening to break free and overwhelm her.

No fool, Anora knew the only thing she could do – the only way to regain some control – would be a release. Of the secrets she had kept so long to herself – and the feelings that followed them.

Turning, she looked at Alistair's sleeping form as she began to speak, the illusion of confession easing her burden. And, silently, she thanked the Maker that he slept so deeply. Her words would only be heard by the air and darkness – and from there, disappear.

As they should.

***

“The palace gossips say I didn't love him. Or rather, that I loved the _idea_ of being Queen more than I loved him.

As usual, they are _wrong_.

These 'observers' don't _know_ me. They never _knew_ Cailan. They didn't see the scope of what I saw.

Cailan had charisma. He had the bearing of a King. The ability to make his subjects love him; to willingly place themselves at his side – despite danger...and death.

_That_ is something precious; something innate.

It cannot be taught.

I loved this about him, yes.

What I did _not_ love was his recklessness – his bravado. His tendency to become so enamored of a single strategy – a single _idea_ – that he would be blinded to all else around him.

But these flaws could be curtailed...if _I_ was his Queen.

In the end, I loved the idea of what he could _become_ – of what _we_ could become – for Ferelden...and to each other _._

Despite his heritage he _was_ , after all, the freer of us both. More open...more ready to smile and laugh.

And I, as the child of my stern father, needed that. Needed to be reminded that the world was not always a serious place.

Of course, I still felt I was giving more to him than he to me in our match, but I was content. My contributions would strengthen us all – and I would marry a _good_ man.”

Anora laughed, her breath hitching on another sob before she could even finish. And she found herself shaking her head; as though she could negate – or deny – those events long-past.

“If Cailan was a fool in his recklessness, then what was _I_? The blind faith in my own plans; the certainty that my father would _not_ step in and take the reigns when he saw a 'threat' to his beloved country.

My father...”

Anora's sigh held something too deep for words. A potent mix of emotions even _she_ could not decipher.

“He always saw me as a child, you know. His little girl – even after I was married and enthroned. And while part of his need to control _did_ come from the idea that I was too young – too _inexperienced_ – to make these choices, another, all-too-real, part came from his need to protect me. To shelter me from the world.

He once stood alongside a reigning monarch; fought wars with him. He knew what could be sacrificed...and did not wish me to face the same.

I know it hurt him to see me fret – as the years passed with no sign of a royal heir.

I never spoke of it to my father, but I know he noticed when I would stiffen – each time I caught a whisper between courtiers about the 'barren Queen'.

In our chambers, I would voice my fears to Cailan...but he would only laugh and say, 'Give it time,' distracting me with kisses, all the while.

And I saw no other option than to let it be...until the day my father summoned me, alerting me to the growing correspondence that had, for some time now, taken place between my husband – and the Empress of Orlais.

My father, bless him, saw the greatest danger in a friendly rapport between former enemies. A weakness, he believed, that would only open us once more to the possibility of foreign conquest.

But _I_ saw the way she spoke to him in those letters – coy, flirtatious. The way she _insinuated_ his growing need for heirs. And her subtle suggestion that both their respective councils would approve _their_ pairing as a suitable match.

Imagine, the King of Ferelden, and the Empress of Orlais!

And yet...

The implication – _her_ implication – shone clear, through the merry, joking tone.

The idea she had given Cailan was a dangerous one.

Seductive. Powerful. All-too-possible.

Though the letters were returned, their absence never noticed, I could _see_ their effect on Cailan – every day thereafter.

He had foolishly taken _this_ idea to heart – had let it plant roots inside his mind. And I watched it grow with every sideways glance in my direction.

It was almost a relief when war with the darkspawn called him away – saving us _both_ the trouble, I'm sure, of pantomiming a perfect marriage.

As the Queen, I received periodic reports from the front – along with missives from the King and my father. I know my own news was much faster – much fresher – than the rest of Ferelden.

So I was not surprised to hear of Cailan's plan to attack – massing with the fabled Grey Wardens – or of his boyish exuberance to see it played out.

Reports of my father's...irritation at this gambit – and at his monarch's behavior in general – were similarly unsurprising. And I readied myself for a long silence on my father's part – his anger making him terse, focused; cutting him off from the outside world.

How astonishing, then, that on the _cusp_ of their great battle, I should receive a messenger – a saddle-sore, young page – with a message from my father.

My father, of all people!

In all my life, he had _never_ taken time, _never_ broken concentration so soon before a battle for _any_ personal duty. Even in battles so uncertain that my mother and I feared for his survival.

So, why now?

Pretending a calm I did not feel, I took the boy's letter – dismissing him to the kitchens for warmth and food.

I was alone as I read; and still, my father had been _so_ cautious.

To any outsider, it would have seemed a casual letter between loved-ones – odd, given the circumstances, but not alarming.

For my father and I...there was another meaning couched in every phrase.

It was an _old_ subterfuge, dating back to my father's youth – when he and Maric fought against the Orlesian invaders. They used it to pass messages among the rebels but, once the throne was restored, it fell to the wayside, unneeded.

By all except my father.

He was a wary man. His gift for strategy saw him _always_ thinking...of a possible worst-case for every situation; of how it could be turned to an advantage.

And so he taught me the old codes of the Orlesian occupation, along with the strategy and diplomacy he knew I would need.

I, and I _alone_ , knew that the letter I _saw_ the eve before the Battle of Ostagar and the one I _read_ were two, vastly different things.

My father wrote to me of his plans – for Cailan; for the army. He wrote of his own certainty that my husband ignored the Orlesian threat – entertaining the diplomacy of our former conquerors – to indulge his own 'hero's fantasies' with the Wardens. He asked that I _understand_ what he would do; that I see its necessity.

And though he did not mention it, he must have known that the words of the Empress Celene to my husband still burned in my mind.

My father always _did_ have a talent for reading people.

I believe he knew what my response would be, before the letter was even sent – though he may not have known _all_ my reasons.

And it was, of course, nothing.

I folded up the letter, burned it, and rang my maid for tea.

Within the hour, I was sitting with Erlina, gossiping, and acting as though my visitor – and his missive – had never existed.

I continued to do so, up until the first reports of my husband's death – and the darkspawn massacre – began to trickle in.

Only then did I let my grief show. And never more than I deemed appropriate.

I think it took time for the reality – the _magnitude_ of what I had done to sink in.

At first, it was merely uncomfortable to be around my father – awkward, in a way it hadn't been before.

When I looked him in the eye, I felt the weight of the secret between us...the guilt.

Then I began to notice the way he was changing; more convinced, more dogmatic, more inflexible. And I watched as the men who followed him began to waver – in what had once been their steadfast support of him.

I will not pretend that losing my father did not hurt.

Nor will I pretend that he was without guilt.

But I must stop pretending that he was the _only_ one.”

Anora paused for a moment, her silence given greater depth by the shadowed room. And though her tears had stopped, her voice still held a quiet desolation that spoke of greater pain.

“I could have saved Cailan, that day. Him – and _so_ many others.

I am the Queen, as I was then, and my word would have been enough to marshal troops, guards...the men needed to stop my father. Had I cared enough, I could have reached the field in time – and taken my father's command.

I would not have been the first Ferelden Queen to do so.

But, just as my father was blinded by his zealotry, his ideals, so _I_ was blinded by my jealousy...and my fear.

Even now, I am still too much a coward to confess my sins in daylight – especially to you, my fledgling husband.

This, too, I will never tell you in waking – I think you may, indeed, be too good for me. Better than I deserve.”

Briefly, Anora smiled, but it was gone within a moment and her face was somber once more – as was her voice.

"I _know_ , though, that I must excise this growing guilt – if not for myself, then for our child. I will have no shadow darken its life; disrupt its family.

And, perhaps, I _will_ find the strength to tell you, for its sake, _all_ of my story.

For now, this confession – made to the dark around us both – will have to be enough.”

Only after she had finished speaking did Anora realize how exhausted she'd become. Between her tears, the lateness of the hour, and the movements of the child within her, she had spent her restless energy – and found herself adrift almost as soon as she lay down.

In the hazy twilight between sleep and waking, she thought of Cailan – his easy laugh, his kind nature.

And she thought, _'If Maferath, who gave Andraste so cruelly to her enemies, was forgiven...would not Cailan do the same for me?'_

For a moment, she thought she knew the answer...but it slipped away as sleep pulled her under. In the end, she prayed just to remember the question, itself.

***

So the Queen of Ferelden slept, heart lightened by her confession. And at her side was the King, who slept as soundly as she.

Or did he?

For all Anora's learning – all her study on turns of phrase, nuances of expression and body language – her _experience_ was limited.

_She_ had never spent months campaigning through the wilderness, learning to sleep lightly so no enemy could surprise you.

_She_ could not tell the difference between true sleep and feigned; especially in one who had perfected the deception to lure in the enemy, unknowing.

Alistair was awake, even now. He had been since he heard her stir.

For him, this was a regular occurrence. Often he waited, just to make sure there was no trouble with the child, before relaxing once more.

_Sometimes_ , he simply watched his wife, covertly, as she sat or read – restless often this late in her pregnancy.

He thought he knew her, now, as well as he ever might. But still he watched her, unawares, hoping to catch new insight into his beautiful, enigmatic Queen.

Tonight...he'd gotten much more than he'd bargained for.

Not for the first time, he cursed his own stubborn curiosity because – while he'd felt guilty listening to what was, obviously, a private confession – he did _not_ feel guilty enough to stop.

And now, here he lay, a sleeping wife by his side, and a large, burdensome secret on his lap.

_'The old Alistair,'_ he thought, _'would have panicked at this. But not the King!'_

Surprisingly, those joking words held weight when he tested them, and he found that, indeed, he _had_ changed enough to accept his wife's revelation.

To accept...and to _understand_ that the key to her, if anything, was time.

Alistair sighed as he shifted in bed, settling himself for sleep once more. And as he did, he thought on the women he had known in his travels. Morrigan, Wynne, Leliana...and, of course, his fellow Warden.

In the end, they had been the ones to teach him just how _complex_ women could be.

_'Of course,'_ he thought, _'_ none _of us is without our secrets.'_

And a brief flash of Morrigan's smile on their one night together slipped through his mind like smoke.

Then, like his wife, King Alistair Theirin fell into the arms of slumber. Only darkness and silence remained to guard the secrets they had heard.

 


End file.
